


Scars

by Boton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Romance, Scars, the morning after
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-21
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 22:09:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14724485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boton/pseuds/Boton
Summary: Mycroft reflects on scars and caring while he takes a step into unfamiliar territory.Rated T for implied sexual encounter.Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and his universe are the creation of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Sherlock is the creation of the BBC and its partners, and of co-creators Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. This work is for my pleasure and that of my readers; I am not profiting from the intellectual property of those creators listed above.





	Scars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sgam76](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/gifts).



> I'm ba-a-a-ck! It's been a long time since I wrote a fic, mostly because I've been trying to figure out how to make S4 fit into my understanding of S1-S3 canon. (Hint: I don't think it really does.) But this scene has been floating around my mind for a long time, and then sgam76, in her lovely epic "Redemption," provided just the right detail to get me going again.

Mycroft awoke to the feeling of something ghosting across his bare body; specifically, across the long scar that swooped down his chest and under the right side of his rib cage. Funny, he thought, eyes still closed as he drifted to consciousness. He hardly ever thought about the scar unless he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirrors of the dressing rooms in the gym at the Diogenes. It had long since stopped aching when the weather changed, and he had grown accustomed to its slight tingly numbness that differentiated it from the surrounding skin. But now, something was deliberately tracing the shiny white path that interrupted his otherwise smooth flesh. He lazily opened his eyes.

“I gave you that scar,” a voice said.

Memories of the night before came flooding back as Mycroft looked down at the mussy, silvery hair of Elizabeth Smallwood, taken down from its usual controlled updo. He smiled slightly as he thought of the events that brought her here – those that had ended with her head pillowed on his shoulder and both of them sated and drowsy. Events that had at once seemed very sudden and a long time in the making.

“You certainly did not, Liz,” Mycroft said. “I got that scar on a mission 15 years ago, when I was arrogant enough to believe that continuing to train with the épée was an adequate substitute for practicing to face a Bowie knife.”

“I sent you on that mission,” she said, finger now twirling passes back and forth across the old wound, making a shivery sensation as she passed over the flesh. “We might never have gotten to this moment.”

“You barely knew me then, and even if you did,” Mycroft said, pausing to sigh. “We both know that caring is not an advantage in our line of work.”

“I’ve sent so many people to be injured and killed. I tell myself that they protected thousands of others with their sacrifice, but they are still with me,” she said softly.

Liz nodded, raised her head, then sat up amongst the sheets. “I suppose we all have our scars, visible or not,” she continued. “So what now, then? I need to go into the office for a meeting. You?”

Mycroft’s brows furled. He had little experience with this part of a sexual encounter; for the better part of the past two decades, he had chosen to make use of a very discrete service available through the Diogenes whenever his body’s needs began to cloud his thinking. It was clean, private, and involved no emotion. Finding himself in bed with a woman to whom he was attracted was novel, and, if he were honest with himself, slightly disconcerting.

“I assume you would prefer that we go in separately. Save the tedious office gossip,” he said.

Liz threw back her head and chuckled. “Mycroft. We are two consenting adults, and gossip is so ephemeral. Who cares what they think? We will stop by mine so I can pick up a fresh outfit, but there is no need to sneak in like we’re trying to rob the place.”

She stood, walking confidently toward the en suite. Mycroft watched until she was at the door, wanting to say something perfect, something profound. Instead, he heard himself saying, “Extra towels are in the cupboard.”

“Join me?” she asked, turning back to offer him a hand. He rose from the bed and strode across the room. Sometimes, he thought, even old wounds could begin to heal.


End file.
